


Like the one with the Nap Partners

by Renne



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Cuddling and Snuggling, Gen, M/M, Sleepiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-13
Updated: 2010-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-11 17:55:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renne/pseuds/Renne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: Arthur/Eames; They end up having to platonically share a bed for ages, and get so used to sleeping together that when they don't have to anymore they can't sleep -- cue one turning up on the other's doorstep all rumpled and exhausted and secretly nervous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like the one with the Nap Partners

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the episode of Friends, 'The One with the Nap Partners'. Originally posted [here](http://futureperfect.livejournal.com/842186.html).

Two week after Eames moves out of Arthur's fancy apartment, there's a loud knock at his door. He wakes suddenly, reaching for the Beretta under his pillow. Stumbling from the bed and flicking the safety off – at one am in his line of work it pays to be careful – he heads for the door.

Chain still on, Eames cracks the door open and squints out into the brightly lit hallway, gun at the ready. It takes him a moment to focus Arthur's face from a blurry pale circle topped by a mess of dark hair to familiarity and by the time he can tell who it is – no one he'd ever expect to show up at his door in the middle of the night for starters – the resigned expression on Arthur's face has tipped to anxiousness.

"Arthur?" Eames eventually says, his voice rough and confused. He lowers the gun and rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand. "What are you doing here? What time is it?" Then, belatedly, "Is something wrong?"

"Um," Arthur says. He digs his hands deeper into his coat pockets and hunches his shoulders, shuffling a little closer to the door and leaning in. "Can I come in?"

"Oh – oh! Yes, sure, I'm sorry, I'm—I should've—come in." Eames unchains the door and ushers Arthur in. He closes the door and leans against it, watching Arthur peer about the living space curiously. There's not much to see – the only light comes through the bathroom door, reflecting off white walls enough so Eames wouldn't run into his desk or AV unit or coffee table.

Most of the furniture is just dark shapes against the walls, but Arthur still says, "I like what you've done with the place?"

" _Arthur_."

There's just enough light to see the abashed look on Arthur's face as he shrugs and lets out a soft, frustrated noise. He scrubs his hand over his face and Eames takes his arm, with light fingers under his elbow guiding him into the kitchen to sit down. He sets the gun down and flicks on the downlight over the sink. At least Eames doesn't have to squint to see Arthur's face now. "Tea? Coffee?"

"Water?"

"Water it is, then." He sets a glass down in front of Arthur and slides into the chair at the end of the table. "You want to tell me what this is all about then? I mean, it's not that I don't appreciate your visit, but your timing leaves a lot to be desired." He smiles to take the sting out of the words.

Arthur sighs and leans back in his chair. He runs his fingertip over the droplets of water clinging to the outside of the glass. "You'll laugh," he warns and sounds annoyed. Eames is awake enough that he can tell the annoyance isn't so much directed at him as internally. Arthur's right pissy with himself for something and buggered if Eames knows what. Arthur's voice is low and firm as he says, "If you laugh, I swear, I will kill you in the most painful way I possibly can. It will be long and agonising and you will _beg_ to die befo—"

"Hey!" Eames holds up his hands. "All right, I get the picture. I laugh, I hurt, I die. I promise I won't laugh." He hopes to God he can keep the promise, because he knows well what Arthur's capable of and has no doubt that the next time they're in a convenient dream there will be a section of 'hurting Eames' time scheduled in Arthur's planner.

Arthur sighs and frowns, his gaze skipping away. The pause drags out almost to the point where Eames wants to give him a gentle nudge when he finally blurts out, "I can't sleep. I just – this week I haven't been able to sleep at all and it's really starting to mess me up."

He covers his eyes with his hand and Eames feels a wave of concern. Why on Earth Arthur thought he would laugh at _that_ he hasn't got the foggiest idea. Eames leans forward in his chair, his hand hovering over Arthur's arm – just for a moment, because even with the whole having lived together thing it still feels a little weird. "C'mon," he says gently. "If you need anything to help you sleep, I've got this stuff one of my chemists knocked up. It won't help you dream but it'll put you to sleep, if you want?"

Arthur peeks through his fingers, shaking his head. Eventually he sighs and raises his face, again looking nervous and resigned. He laughs awkwardly. "It's not that bad," he says. "I know what I... need." At that a flush crawls up his cheeks. It's utterly charming. "I'm just not used to... well, sleeping alone anymore."

Eames blinks. He straightens in his chair. Is Arthur...? Is he saying what Eames _thinks_ he's saying...?

Arthur jabs his finger in Eames' face. "You said you wouldn't laugh."

Again Eames holds his hands up defensively. "I'm not laughing!" And he's not. For some reason he's really not, when he knows as well as Arthur that he should be rolling around on the floor in gales of laughter, because Arthur, proper stick-in-the-mud _Arthur_ has just confessed to missing sharing a bed with him. Eames opens his mouth to speak before closing it. He doesn't even know what to say.

He tries again, trying to ignore how anxious Arthur looks. Arthur shouldn't be looking anxious. Arthur _never_ looks anxious. "So you came all the way across town to tell me you miss me—miss sleeping with—miss sharing a bed with me?"

Arthur fidgets with the cup. He really _is_ nervous, Eames realises. "Well, I – it's just because I haven't been sleeping well. This job with Dom and Mal could go off moment and I'm not at my peak. I just need one good night, that's all, just one. So I was wondering..." He trails off.

And Eames might be concerned, and he might be not laughing when he should be laughing, but Eames is still Eames enough to want Arthur to actually say the words. He schools his expression and waits.

Arthur's brows dip in a scowl when he realises he's not going to get away with merely implying what he wants. He makes a noise of annoyance in the back of his throat before half-turning in his chair, nudging the back of his fingers up against Eames' wrist. He's all serious, big brown eyes and it's rather lovely to see him like this, but Eames is not about to spoil it all by mentioning that. "Is it okay if I sleep here tonight? With you?"

Eames stares at him. Holds his gaze for a long moment before saying, "...Sorry. If you'll hold that thought and just excuse me a tick."

It's perfectly fine for Arthur to stay here, but Eames isn't quite ready to invite him through. He ducks into his bedroom, placing the gun on the bedside table and fishing around in the top drawer for his totem, just to check. This whole situation is _just_ ridiculous enough that it could be a practical joke but... nope. He quickly scopes out the room for anything inappropriate (no used tissues, porn mags, the like) because he _knows_ Arthur and as fun as it is to get under his skin, sometimes it's best not to paint a target on himself.

He pops back into the kitchen and now Arthur looks annoyed with him – a more familiar and comfortable place to be and Eames grins like the Cheshire Cat. "Just making sure we're all appropriate," he says lightly. "Come on through."

"Appropriate?" Arthur says suspiciously, slowly standing.

"Two weeks in my own bed, alone," Eames reminds him. Arthur's expression clears, though Eames is pretty sure his cheeks have gone a little pinker. "Don't worry," he says. "We _are_ all appropriate." He leads Arthur through to his bedroom, aware that just for a moment Arthur is too close – a different kind of close – and feeling a sudden shiver of awareness at up his spine that he doesn't want to think about. So he doesn't, he boxes it up and puts it away where all his feelings eventually go because it will never mean anything and Eames is so _good_ at putting his important pieces away like that, and ushers Arthur past into his room, closing the door behind himself.

A moment's spent rummaging around in his wardrobe and he tosses a t-shirt on the bed. He doesn't bother asking Arthur if he wants pants – he knows well what Arthur sleeps in as well as Arthur knows him, which is why Arthur doesn't bat an eyelid at Eames sliding into the bed in nothing but a pair of light cotton pants.

Eames watches Arthur shrug out of his jacket (not in the slightest self-conscious with his audience either, because Eames had broken him of that quickly) and chuckles when he sees that Arthur, under his jacket, is wearing a full suit. Arthur flashes him a look and then half-smiles as he looks down to untie his shoes. "I didn't honestly think you would turn me away," he admits. "So I thought I might just come over in tomorrow's clothes."

"Cocky."

" _Confident_ ," Arthur corrects. He strips down to his under shorts and pulls on Eames' t-shirt – "I remember this one," he says, "I gave it to you that first week," – and then burrows in between the blankets.

After eight and a half months they've been through all the issues that arise with two dicks in the one bed. While they might have started off sleeping resolutely on separate sides of the bed, both of them know well that you can't always judge what might happen when you're asleep, and they've dealt with it all. With surprise cuddling and morning wood, with roaming hands and drooling, with sleep talking and accidental nudity and that one time with the epic sexy case of booze-fuelled mistaken identity that ended in Eames sleeping on the couch for a week (and a signed contract never to play 'I Never' again).

As annoying as Arthur might find his own sleepless shortcomings, Eames knows _he'd_ gotten used to sleeping with Arthur too. Used to waking up with Arthur spooned warm and close against his back, slobbering all over his shoulder in his sleep. And had Arthur thought to ask, Eames would have been completely honest with him: he's missed sharing bedspace with Arthur too, because it was eight and a half months, after all. Eames gets used to these sorts of thing quickly. He's adaptable. That first night home – his home, not the home he'd made at Arthur's – he didn't sleep a wink, second night maybe a few hours, the third a few more and on from that. This, he's sure, will help him fall right back into missing it all over again.

"Promise me you won't tell anyone about this."

"Did I tell anyone about the last eight months?"

"Well... no."

"Arthur, I will not tell anyone about this." He reaches out and lays his finger against Arthur's lips, the typical shushing gesture. He can see the reflected glint of lamplight in Arthur's eyes. "On my life. Now go to sleep." Eames reaches out and flicks off the lamp, shuffling down comfortably under the blankets. There's a moment of stillness before he feels the bed shift as Arthur inches over, curling up against him and it's comfortingly familiar with Arthur's hip and shoulder and arm nudged up against his back.

(When Eames wakes the next morning Arthur is sprawled half-over him, all thin limbs and face nestled in against his neck. Arthur has a leg wedged between his and between that and the arm Arthur has wrapped around his waist, it all feels strangely proprietary.

Eames can't bring himself to complain. Instead he smiles, sighs and closes his eyes again. He's asleep in seconds.)


End file.
